Of Redheads and Their Prudish Tendencies
by IvoryAlchemist
Summary: Stark knew from the moment he first laid eyes on this Virginia Potts character that she was everything he detested in a woman: conservative, judgmental and boring. Dear lord, this Personal Assistant interview couldn't end soon enough. Pepperony


Stark wore his best suit that day, the one that flattered his chest and waist. He made sure his hair was perfectly disheveled, he trimmed the goatee in the limo on the way to office. Today was a special day. Today, he interviewed candidates for the newly-invented position of Tony Stark's Personal Assistant.

The first candidate was named Mallory McPhail, which Stark found ironic. She was petite and shapely, with mysterious emerald green eyes, smooth olive skin and succulent Angelina Jolie rose-petal lips. He interviewed her for a few suggestive minutes, and once that flash of realization flared behind her beautiful eyes, the pencil skirt gradually moved up her delicious muscular biker-thighs and the blouse plunged lower and lower across her bosom. He discovered upon further investigation that she was very efficient worker, and an uncommonly good multi-tasker -- oh, how that woman multi-tasked. He gave her file a stamp of approval for a re-interview.

The second came in after he took a brief sandwich break so he could recuperate, though it was unnecessary; Esperanza Arriaga did all the work herself. Stark tested her attention to detail -- superb -- her follow-through on a project; quite mind-blowing, and even her ability to talk with her mouth full: exemplary. She read him like a book, predicting his needs and wants before he even became fully aware of them, even knowing to let him go and move aside before he strangle out a word of warning. Another stamp of approval. This was turning out to be a very good day.

As the afternoon marched along, he made his way through all manner of candidates: tall, short, curvy, skinny. Some were orally inclined, others manually talented. One woman was quite advanced in the Kama Sutra. And each candidate, at the end of their interview, was asked one fundamental question -- whether or not they salted their mashed potatoes. Because, Stark reasoned, no right-minded human being ate mash plain. They all answered in the affirmative, and Stark felt himself to have made exceptional progress.

Obadiah, however, did not appear to agree. He had thundered into Stark's office like usual, commanding everyone's full attention. His mouth ticked in irritation as he scanned through the women's files, tossing out one after another after another. Stark whined his protests but generally tolerated the older man's interference; he was not the type to initiate conflict. Finally, Obadiah turned to him and his brows slammed down into a tremendous frown, glaring silently at his god-son before leaving the office with his typical driven stride.

Stark thought for a moment he was off the hook, but sure enough another file arrived from the receptionist out front: one last candidate to be interviewed, selected specifically by Obadiah himself. Her name, if the type was to be believed, was Virginia Potts. From her profile picture, it was clear she was a good-looking woman; none the less, she lacked the usual makeup and wavy bleached hair of the previous hopefuls. No, her hair was pinned in a severe bun on the back of her head that made her look like a librarian, and her pencil-thin mouth was ever-so-slightly downturned. She looked serious and dull. And besides, she was red-head. If experience was anything, Stark had learned red-heads were not to be trusted.

Accordingly, Stark disliked her immediately.

She arrived in his office the next day, folding herself into his guest chair and pinning him with an expectant look. Never one to back down on a challenge, Stark perused her file with practiced disinterest and wondered how pissed Obie would be if he nailed her too.

"So, Virginia," Stark began amiably, pausing dramatically as he heard a pointed throat-clearing. "Yes?"

She smiled hollowly. "Miss Potts, if you will, sir."

Stark felt his cheek twitch in annoyance. "_Miss Potts. _How exactly to do you, Miss Potts, plan on convincing me to hire you today?" He lounged back in his chair, eyeing her carefully. His tie was undone, his shirt was unbuttoned at the very top. His exuded an air of seductive disarray that he knew from lots and lots _and lots _of experience would eventually wear down any woman subjected to it long enough.

"I'm not sure I take your meaning, Mr. Stark." Her voice was flat, unassuming but unfriendly regardless. The way she bit out his name was making him slightly hard. He sat up and pulled himself closer to the desk.

"What I'm asking you, Miss Potts, is what are you prepared to do to convince me?"

Predictably, realization dawned across her pale blue eyes. Her finely plucked blonde brow inched up her forehead and her mouth tightened; quite unconsciously, she reached up and fastened the top button of her blouse. "I was under the impression, sir, that my resume and employer recommendations would do all the convincing themselves."

This one would be a hard nut to crack, Stark realized. Or penetrate, as the case may be. "Indeed." He glanced across the resume with fleeting interest. "Quite impressive, Miss Potts. Quite impressive." His finger lingered over her profile shot; upon further inspection, he decided it didn't really do her justice. Her face wasn't so drawn and grey in person. In fact, Stark confessed, it was actually somewhat strikingly beautiful. "Are you married, Miss Potts?"

Miss Potts looked unamused. "That, sir, is not what I would consider professionally necessary information."

_"Professionally necessary information," _he parroted, and grinned indulgently. The woman might as well have SINGLE stamped across her forehead, perhaps with FUTURE CRAZY CAT LADY SPINSTER printed in smaller font below. "Fair enough, Miss Potts. What do you know about me?"

She blinked at him, unfazed. Most women were thrown by the question. "I know, sir, that you are a very successful businessman. That you head Stark Industries, which is a weapons manufacturing company, and that you are considered one of the leading minds in the fields of engineering and mathematics."

Stark nodded. "And I'm ridiculously rich."

A smile pulled at her unexpressive mouth. Stark could scarcely believe it. "Yes, sir. And you are ridiculously rich."

At this point in the interview, Stark stalled. He had not prepared any questions beyond this point; he figured they'd be busy doing other types of getting-to-know-yous by now. Which, come to think of it, was frankly quite annoying. With every moment that passed in her presence, Stark was becoming more and more convinced Miss Potts would be _incredible _in bed.

The woman in question crossed her modestly covered legs, and Stark caught a glimpse of her three-inch Prada heels. They looked killer on her. They'd look even better, Stark thought, digging into the back of his thighs.

With a fake cough, Stark shot his hand under the desk and adjusted himself.

"Well, Miss Potts, I think that will be all for today. Thank you for your time." He glanced up in time to see her expression morph from the surprise at the abrupt ending to irritation and finally a passing second of hurt. His stomach cramped. Ouch. Guilt pains.

She glared at her from beneath her invisible blonde lashes. Was red really her natural hair color? "Very good, Mr. Stark." She stood stiffly, gathering her purse and jacket. "Have a pleasant afternoon."

He realized he'd forgotten the Critical Question, and debated back and forth whether to ask it. Was it really necessary? After all, he wasn't seriously considering this woman for the position.

She reached the door. He rolled his eyes as his gut cramped again. Who kept their conscience in their intestinal track, anyway? "Oh, and Miss Potts--!" She stopped, as he had hoped, and raised her brows expectently. "Miss Potts, do you like mashed potatoes plain or with salt?"

The woman puckered her lips in thought, and he knew she was going to say plain. He just knew it. At least then he'd have a valid excuse for dismissing her.

"Neither, actually, sir. I prefer pepper."

FIN.


End file.
